Classified
by Laura Schiller
Summary: Set after "Hide". Clara and the TARDIS have a few things to discuss, including the reason why the ship dislikes her in the first place.


Classified

By Laura Schiller

Based on: Doctor Who

Copyright: BBC

As soon as the Doctor had climbed down to a lower floor to make repairs, leaving Clara alone in the green-lit console room, she cleared her throat, looked around her, and placed one hand on the edge of the monitor. It was awkward to try and speak to someone without a face, but somehow or other, it had to be done.

"Er … ship? TARDIS? Can you hear me?"

The metal under her fingers grew warmer, then hot. She snatched her hand away before it burned her.

"Oi! Can't you just make a beep or something?"

A deep, grating sound, like the alarm klaxon of some public building, was her answer. Clara grimaced.

"I take that as a yes."

Silence.

"Look," she said, taking a deep breath, strangely reminded of the times her friend's children had spent sulking in their bedrooms, with her trying to coax them out. "I'm trying to apologize here. I made you fly into that pocket universe even though you told me it might destroy you. Plus, I called you a cow. Which was rude. And … I'm sorry."

No response.

"But you _know_ why I did it, don't you?" she continued, holding out both hands in the direction of the central column before her. "Shouted at you, I mean. The Doctor was in danger, and that other time traveller too. How was I supposed to know that Emma managed to find them? I just wanted to … to save him. Like he's always saving me."

Her voice softened, then trailed off, as she realized what was happening. The atmosphere, which was always damp and chilly whenever she was alone in a TARDIS room, had been slowly warming and drying until – for the first time – her black coat was too hot for her. She took it off and draped it on the hanger. The air was soft against her linen shirt.

To her left, a flat screen suddenly swivelled to face her. It showed her a still image of the Doctor - hair flying, bow tie askew, one arm a white-sleeved blur as the 'camera' caught him mid-gesture, with that boyish grin on his face. He seemed to be working on the TARDIS, but it looked different; the walls, the console and the light were all in warm shades of cream and gold.

"You care about him too," Clara said softly. "I didn't _make_ you go at all, did I? You would have done it anyway."

The answer was a quiet chime.

"And so you'll … tolerate me for his sake, is that it?"

Another chime, this one with several notes, almost like a laugh.

"Fair enough."

Suddenly, however, just as she hoped they might begin to get along, the temperature dropped slightly, raising goosebumps on her neck and arms. The screen switched to a different picture – a picture of the Doctor kissing a tall, curly-haired woman through a set of prison bars.

Clara's jaw dropped.

"What? He - he never told me he had a girlfriend!" she protested, hearing the hint of a schoolgirl's whine in her voice immediately and feeling ashamed of herself.

The TARDIS "zoomed in" on one of the woman's hands, which rested on the Doctor's shoulder and was adorned with the distinctive golden shimmer of a ring.

"A _wife_?"

Clara took a deep breath, adjusted the strap of her messenger bag, and struggled to compose herself. _You're catching flies, sweetie,_ her mother would have said. She had had worse shocks than this – _much_ worse, if you counted the Soviet submarine, having one's hand held by an alien, and finding out one's travelling companion considered the heat death of Planet Earth a casual errand. This, well … this was more on par with finding out at age fifteen that Johnny Temple had asked Donna Smith to the winter formal. This, she could handle. A girl had to keep things in perspective, after all.

"Oh, that Doctor … " Clara laughed, rather breathlessly, and shook her head. "Calls himself my friend, and couldn't even introduce me to his wife?"

_She's not even all that good-looking, _whispered a snippy little voice in the back of her mind. _You could scrub a sink with that hair! _

She suppressed the unkind thought immediately, but the TARDIS – just as if it had heard her – produced another picture of the woman, by herself this time, inside that other golden console room. Her skin and hair, which had appeared a sickly greeenish-white in the prison photo, were now healthy shades of pink and gold. She wore a long black V-neck gown with red high heels and she was smiling straight into the camera, her blue eyes alive with mischief. She looked to be anywhere from late thirties to mid-sixties, but Clara had travelled with the Doctor long enough to know that appearances could be deceiving.

In any case, she looked fascinating – which, to Clara's mind, was better than beauty any day. She looked exactly like the Doctor's type, and despite herself, Clara's fingers began to itch with curiosity.

"So, where is she then?" she asked, trying to keep things casual. "'Cause you know, where I come from, married couples usually live together. As long as they're still married, I mean."

The screen flashed back to the kiss through the prison bars. Clara put her hand to her forehead.

"Right. Stupid question." And, as the full implications became clear to her, "Oh my stars … "

The Doctor's wife was a convict. What did it say about him, that this barely even surprised her?

"What did she _do_?"

Several ear-piercing beeps send her jumping backwards until she hit the wall. At the same time, red capital letters flashed across the screen, erasing the picture.

_CLASSIFIED_

"Oof! I get it." Clara rubbed her elbow, which had connected sharply with the wall. "None of my business. Just asking."

_Maybe she's innocent,_ suggested her more charitable side. _Or maybe, whatever she did, she just had to do. Like the Doctor would have had to nuke the submarine if Skaldak hadn't backed down, to protect the Earth … _

Falling in love with someone like that was the Doctor all over, she realized ruefully. He'd nicknamed that gray alien "Romeo", talked to Skaldak as an equal, spoken to Merry as wisely and lovingly as if she were his own lost granddaughter. He could find something to admire in anyone, even what other people might call monsters. It was one of many things she admired about him.

The first picture, though it was no longer in her mind, had not faded from her mind's eye: those concrete walls with their harsh white lighting. The Doctor's wife wrapping her hands around the bars of her cell as she leaned forward to kiss her husband, possibly even kiss him goodbye.

What was a passenger with a silly crush compared to that?

"I told him when I came on board that I wouldn't compete with a ghost," Clara decided, drawing herself up to her full height, ignoring the pounding of her heart and the remains of a blush on her face. "I won't compete with a living woman either. Especially not her. I couldn't … I could never take advantage of someone trapped like that. If he tries anything on – which I don't think he will, by the way – I'll ask him to bring me straight back home. I swear on my mother's grave."

She placed her hand over her heart, invoing the most powerful promise she knew. Her own image was reflected in the TARDIS screen, solemn and determined. It gave no sign of the twinge it cost her to make that promise, imagining how hard it would be to keep.

"So you can stop locking me out and making me freeze, all right? 'Cause it's starting to get annoying," she added, taking on that light, scolding, elder-sister tone she used on her charges at home.

In response, the TARDIS lit up brighter than ever before – not her usual greenish-white light, but a warm, almost sunny gold. She could imagine how it had looked when the Doctor's wife was with him. She closed her eyes, feeling warm air caress her face.

"I'd still like to meet her sometime," she murmured, mostly to herself.

Beep! _CLASSIFIED._

"Okay, okay." She laughed and patted the console. "Shutting up now. Think I'll go check how my soufflés are doing … "

And with pointed unconcern (storing up her hundreds of questions for later), Clara wandered off towards the kitchen – which, by the grace of the TARDIS, was a shorter distance away than it had ever been before.


End file.
